09-19-2021, 03:20 PM
with rushing thread of brazen spindles.
The wolf begs her to go.
(But the thing all made of shadows is not afraid for her life, he is afraid for his own—if she dies, he dies.)
And the stallion invites her to go, too. But she stays where she is, her focus never wavering from his face, all dark with emotions she will never know intimately. She drags in an unsteady breath and then smiles. There is a kind of serenity that settles over her as the heart wilts and slows and she shakes her head as she takes one shuffling step backward away from him, feeling the way his feelings loosen their hold on her pulse when she does.
“It’s not that,” she murmurs, smiling still. “No, it’s not that at all.”
This is the truth. (Is the third daughter capable of telling a lie?)
But she takes another backward step away from him, not because she feels any overwhelming desire to flee the situation but because her strength returns in fractions with the more space she puts between them.
She closes her eyes, feeding on the love the wolf presses into her skin still, and wills herself to change. It requires more energy than she thinks she has, but after a moment downy wings sprout from her shoulders, the tail shortens and a curly mane grows down the length of her neck. And when she opens her eyes again, the dual threads between her eyes glow even brighter. Because she is a thing built for love and it surges recklessly through her in this form.
“See?” she asks, breathless, knees trembling. As if this explains it. Still smiling, she says, “love.”
(But the thing all made of shadows is not afraid for her life, he is afraid for his own—if she dies, he dies.)
And the stallion invites her to go, too. But she stays where she is, her focus never wavering from his face, all dark with emotions she will never know intimately. She drags in an unsteady breath and then smiles. There is a kind of serenity that settles over her as the heart wilts and slows and she shakes her head as she takes one shuffling step backward away from him, feeling the way his feelings loosen their hold on her pulse when she does.
“It’s not that,” she murmurs, smiling still. “No, it’s not that at all.”
This is the truth. (Is the third daughter capable of telling a lie?)
But she takes another backward step away from him, not because she feels any overwhelming desire to flee the situation but because her strength returns in fractions with the more space she puts between them.
She closes her eyes, feeding on the love the wolf presses into her skin still, and wills herself to change. It requires more energy than she thinks she has, but after a moment downy wings sprout from her shoulders, the tail shortens and a curly mane grows down the length of her neck. And when she opens her eyes again, the dual threads between her eyes glow even brighter. Because she is a thing built for love and it surges recklessly through her in this form.
“See?” she asks, breathless, knees trembling. As if this explains it. Still smiling, she says, “love.”
@Ashhal